Month: March 2006

Sad Discovery on Fifth Street: Daughter Finds Estranged Father Only In Death

March 14, 1907

Los Angeles

Pity Miss Jane Beamer of Long Beach, who for most of her 20 years has yearned to meet her father, from whom her mother separated when she was tiny, back in Beamerville, IL.

She has discovered to her great grief that the fruit and confectionary vendor killed Tuesday night near his shop at 708 East Fifth Street was this same Frank O. Beamer, who has been living in this community for a number of years. Many times had Jane Beamer, her mother and her step-father R.E. Blair passed Beamer’s stand, and even gazed into his face, without recognize the ladies’ kinsman, who was also Blair’s schoolyard chum.

Today, Miss Beamer grieves at the Bresee Brothers’ mortuary on South Figueroa Street, lending comfort to Beamer’s widow, who did not know until today of her husband’s previous marriage or child.

The accident occured when Beamer stepped off an East-bound Brooklyn Avenue streetcar at the intersection of Fifth and Ruth Avenue. As he alit, his path was crossed by an automobile driven by W.P. Young, carrying three ladies and R.H. Ingram, general superintendent of the Southern Pacific Railroad, en route to catch the San Francisco Owl train at the Arcade Depot.

Beamer, who was very nearsighted, was apparently startled to see the machine so near him, and moved first one way, then another, before dashing headlong into the path of the oncoming auto. Although Young killed his engine and attempted to swerve, Beamer was struck and killed where he stood.

The inquest found Young without fault after Beamer died in the Emergency Hospital without regaining consciousness.

Illustration below from the 1909 city map compiled by Worthington Gates, Western Litho Co, showing Bresee Bros in the heart of Mortuary Row, on Figueroa just south of Eight Street.

 

Police Grill Pin Boy in Winters Whack

March 13, 1947
Los Angeles

Detectives questioned James Joseph Tiernan Jr., 30, tonight about his movements Monday night, both before and after the time he claimed that Evelyn Winters, 42, left his hotel room at 912 W. Sixth Street. Winters turned up dead just after midnight Tuesday in the railyard at Ducommun Street, her clothes in disarray, with a blood alcohol level of .28, a nearly fatal proportion. According to Dr. Frederick Newbarr of the Coroner’s Office, cause of death was blows to the head, exacerbated by the extent of her drunkenness. Tiernan was arrested the next day at the bowling alley at 924 S. Olive Street where he was formerly employed.

Captain Jack Donahoe is following up on Tiernan’s story. Tiernan admits to knowing Winters–a former movie industry legal secretary fallen on hard times–for about two years. He says he met her on Sunday at the public library, then took her to his hotel room. They both liked reading, and alcohol. On Monday night, they were drinking together in the Sixth Street room. Winters left alone between 7:30 and 8 pm. Tiernan stayed in, and that was the last time he saw his friend Evelyn.

Confidential to 1947project readers: 1947 has been an incredible year, and we hope to see you over at our new digs real soon, where the subject is 1907.

The Winters of our Discontent

1947-a lot of women-killing, a lot of booze. It’s enough to turn one into a teetotaling sub. Almost.

And here, a woman killing herself. With booze. Nowadays, her family would call up A&E and she’d be on Intervention. Perfect fodder for the show-someone: somewhere once, nowhere now. Our identified family member has hit bottom. Get them into treatment. God, give me the strength to blame those who did this to me, to accuse those who didn’t, and the wisdom to know the difference…a lifetime of coffee, cigarettes and forced clapping after each and every utterance.

Evelyn Winters was described as “brilliant” by those who knew her, a legal eagle for the studio system since she was 23, til her alcholism caught up with her and she was shitcanned from the film colony at 37. Was there sensitivity training in the workplace for those who still suffer? This is 1947. The only place you’ll be happy, joyous and free is in the afterlife. For more information about alcohol, ask a parent or teacher! Or go here.

The elephant in the copy room went to the elephant graveyard: skid row. Where does a homeless 800-lb. gorilla sleep? Anywhere it can. And so forth.

Evelyn’s last known address-September, 1946-was here, at 2822 Rowena:

But in the months prior to her assault and murder she had been living in the beer parlors on Hill and Figueroa, keeping what was left of her belongings in a liquor store.

She was out carousing, divorced, jobless, though with, I’d wager, a mind still keen and ticking, before she was found nearly nude, beaten, and dragged for some way, near the Ducommun Street railroad right-of-way, here:

Evelyn, homeless, now has a homeless encampment on her site.

So, then there’s this Tiernan character.

He’s twelve years Evelyn’s junior. A former employee of the Angelus Bowling and Billiard Recreation Center-

which is now a parking lot:

(for more on prewar bowling alleys, go here)

-he takes Evelyn to the Albany Hotel at 912 W. Sixth. He drinks with her there for a day and change and, if he is to be believed, she departs between 7:30 and 8pm. She is found at 12:10am.

The Albany, where she may have had her last drink, or did not, is gone:


(Sanwa Bank Plaza, AC Martin, 1990)

Never did find a vintage image of the Albany-some flavor of the wiped-out neighborhood-one block west:

And one block east:

But why the hotel room? We don’t know. Tiernan didn’t live at the Albany. He lived at the Armondale, at 728 South Flower.

Its site today:

First off, what, already, is up with the Armondale Hotel? It has that “built on Indian burial ground” cachet that money can’t buy. Perhaps it was simply built over one of those giant magnets. The kind that attract ne’er-do-wells.

The place had trouble attached from the get-go. Dale Carleton, developer and proprietor of the spanking-new 1914 Armondale, is sued by wifey Marie for a sizable share of his $250,000 net worth. Mrs. Carleton names a Ms. Helen Williams-Armondale telephone girl whose duties apparently went above and beyond the working of switchboard-as correspondent.

1919. Wilbert Garrison, 28, son of a wealthy publisher in New York, drove across country with a buddy and they holed up in the Armondale. A week later Wilbert left in his room his money, valuables, and a note indicating that he did not want to be a burden on others, and as such was ending his life. Despite the best efforts of the Nick Harris detective agency (who calls the cops in 1919?), Wilbert is never found.

1930. Mrs. Louis Valenzuella, 40-ex-wife of Deputy Sheriff Valenzuella-is found dead in the Armondale of a suspected drug overdose.

1939. Washed-up boxer Louis Menney, 22, Armondale resident, is tackled by a priest after he sexually assaulted a 62 year-old woman in a church at 9th (now James M. Woods) and Green. Turns out he’d-moletsed? raped?-the papers will only mention “morals offenses”-a nine year-old in the church as well. Moreover, he’d done his business with a six year-old girl on the corner of 11th (now Chick Hearn) and Georgia, and also kidnapped and robbed an Agnes M—– and sexually assaulted a Margaret L—– in a church on West Adams; since the kidnapping charge is death penalty territory, we can only hope the Armondale’s most famous resident ended up in the proper hands.

1948. Francis Sylvester, of the Armondale, works across the street at the Western Union at 741 South Flower. Sylvester wires untold sums in care of himself to small outlying towns, where there are no Western Union offices, and destroys the records of the transactions.

And 1965. Percy Hatch, 65, who had been in the hotel since 1957, started talking crazy-talk. As in, a loggorhea of obscenities for two straight weeks. Behind the Armondale registration desk was manager Nancy Furlow, 62, who, finally fed up with her repeated warnings, reached for the phone, and was shot dead by Hatch with one bullet. Hatch therewith turned the gun on himself.

Shortly thereafter the Armondale was felled and a rather ill-advised Broadway was built on the site. Now a Macy’s, it resembles a Dawn mall on a slow day. For more on this exercise in brown, please go here.

Tiernan had been reading with Evelyn at Central Library for a couple years. They would read, or shack up and drink, and maybe he’d talk bowling and maybe she’d talk law, but probably not. Neither he nor anyone else was ever charged.

And so goes the final post of 1947. Soon there will be another liquor-infused ladykilling, and another, and Evelyn will be forgotten by all but her mother and best barfly pals and her killer, and God willing, she will become part of us.

Police Grill Pin Boy in Winters Whack

March 13, 1947 Los Angeles Detectives questioned James Joseph Tiernan Jr., 30, tonight about his movements Monday night, both before and after the time he claimed that Evelyn Winters, 42, left his hotel room at 912 W. Sixth Street. Winters turned up dead just after midnight Tuesday in the railyard at Ducommun Street, her clothes in disarray, with a blood alcohol level of .28, a nearly fatal proportion. According to Dr. Frederick Newbarr of the Coroner’s Office, cause of death was blows to the head, exacerbated by the extent of her drunkenness. Tiernan was arrested the next day at the bowling alley at 924 S. Olive Street where he was formerly employed.

Captain Jack Donahoe is following up on Tiernan’s story. Tiernan admits to knowing Winters–a former movie industry legal secretary fallen on hard times–for about two years. He says he met her on Sunday at the public library, then took her to his hotel room. They both liked reading, and alcohol. On Monday night, they were drinking together in the Sixth Street room. Winters left alone between 7:30 and 8 pm. Tiernan stayed in, and that was the last time he saw his
friend Evelyn.

Nathan’s take on the case is here.

Confidential to 1947project readers: 1947 has been an incredible year, and we hope to see you over at our new digs real soon, where the subject is 1907.

The Winters of Our Discontent

Note: Kim’s take on this case is here.

1947:  a lot of women-killing, a lot of booze. It’s enough to turn one into a teetotaling sub. Almost. And here, a woman killing herself. With booze. Nowadays, her family would call up A&E and she�d be on Intervention. Perfect fodder for the show–someone: somewhere once, nowhere now. Our identified family member has hit bottom. Get them into treatment. God, give me the strength to blame those who did this to me, to accuse those who didn’t, and the wisdom to know the difference…a lifetime of coffee, cigarettes and forced clapping after each and every utterance. Evelyn Winters was described as “brilliant” by those who knew her, a legal eagle for the studio system since she was 23, til her alcholism caught up with her and she was shitcanned from the film colony at 37. Was there sensitivity training in the workplace for those who still suffer? This is 1947. The only place you’ll be happy, joyous and free is in the afterlife. For more information about alcohol, ask a parent or teacher! Or go here. The elephant in the copy room went to the elephant graveyard: skid row. Where does a homeless 800-lb. gorilla sleep? Anywhere it can. And so forth. Evelyn’s last known address–September, 1946–was here, at 2822 Rowena:

But in the months prior to her assault and murder she had been living in the beer parlors on Hill and Figueroa, keeping what was left of her belongings in a liquor store. She was out carousing, divorced, jobless, though with, I’d wager, a mind still keen and ticking, before she was found nearly nude, beaten, and dragged for some way, near the Ducommun Street railroad right-of-way, here: Evelyn, homeless, now has a homeless encampment on her site. So, then there’s this Tiernan character. He’s twelve years Evelyn’s junior. A former employee of the Angelus Bowling and Billiard Recreation Center, which is now a parking lot: (for more on prewar bowling alleys, go here) — he takes Evelyn to the Albany Hotel at 912 W. Sixth. He drinks with her there for a day and change and, if he is to be believed, she departs between 7:30 and 8pm. She is found at 12:10am. The Albany, where she may have had her last drink, or did not, is gone: (Sanwa Bank Plaza, AC Martin, 1990) Never did find a vintage image of the Albany; some flavor of the wiped-out neighborhood–one block west: And one block east: But why the hotel room? We don’t know. Tiernan didn’t live at the Albany. He lived at the Armondale, at 728 South Flower. Its site today: First off, what, already, is up with the Armondale Hotel? It has that “built on Indian burial ground” cachet that money can’t buy. Perhaps it was simply built over one of those giant magnets. The kind that attract ne’er-do-wells. The place had trouble attached from the get-go. Dale Carleton, developer and proprietor of the spanking-new 1914 Armondale, is sued by wifey Marie for a sizable share of his $250,000 net worth. Mrs. Carleton names a Ms. Helen Williams–Armondale telephone girl whose duties apparently went above and beyond the working of switchboard–as correspondent. 1919. Wilbert Garrison, 28, son of a wealthy publisher in New York, drove across country with a buddy and they holed up in the Armondale. A week later Wilbert left in his room his money, valuables, and a note indicating that he did not want to be a burden on others, and as such was ending his life. Despite the best efforts of the Nick Harris detective agency (who calls the cops in 1919), Wilbert is never found. 1930. Mrs. Louis Valenzuella, 40, ex-wife of Deputy Sheriff Valenzuella, is found dead in the Armondale of a suspected drug overdose. 1939. Washed-up boxer Louis Menney, 22, Armondale resident, is tackled by a priest after he sexually assaulted a 62 year-old woman in a church at 9th (now James M. Woods) and Green. Turns out he’d–moletsed? raped?–the papers will only mention “morals offenses”–a nine year-old in the church as well. Moreover, he’d done his business with a six year-old girl on the corner of 11th (now Chick Hearn) and Georgia, and also kidnapped and robbed an Agnes M—– and sexually assaulted a Margaret L—– in a church on West Adams; since the kidnapping charge is death penalty territory, we can only hope the Armondale’s most famous resident ended up in the proper hands. 1948. Francis Sylvester, of the Armondale, works across the street at the Western Union at 741 South Flower. Sylvester wires untold sums in care of himself to small outlying towns, where there are no Western Union offices, and destroys the records of the transactions. And 1965. Percy Hatch, 65, who had been in the hotel since 1957, started talking crazy-talk. As in, a loggorhea of obscenities for two straight weeks. Behind the Armondale registration desk was manager Nancy Furlow, 62, who, finally fed up with her repeated warnings, reached for the phone, and was shot dead by Hatch with one bullet. Hatch therewith turned the gun on himself. Shortly thereafter the Armondale was felled and a rather ill-advised Broadway was built on the site. Now a Macy’s, it resembles a Dawn mall on a slow day. For more on this exercise in brown, please go here. Tiernan had been reading with Evelyn at Central Library for a couple years. They would read, or shack up and drink, and maybe he’d talk bowling and maybe she’d talk law, but probably not. Neither he nor anyone else was ever charged. And so goes the final post of 1947. Soon there will be another liquor-infused ladykilling, and another, and Evelyn will be forgotten by all but her mother and best barfly pals and her killer, and God willing, she will become part of us.

Down By The River

March 12, 1947
Whittier

Sheriff’s deputies have obtained a confession from shaggy-haired Myron Funk, 23, in the shocking slaying of Mae Lorena Lund, the 46-year-old ladyfriend of Funk’s father Frank (aka Hardrock).

Lund’s strangled body was found in the shallows of the San Gabriel River in Norwalk, several miles from her home at 115 Burton Street, Bellflower. Funk admitted that he had returned alone to Burton Street after he and his father went home to South Gate following a night of heavy drinking. He claimed to recall arguing with Lund, but to be uncertain over what. He knew he had hit her in the jaw, shoved her onto the bed, then wrapped an electrical cord from a nearby iron tight around her throat. He claims he drove her corpse to the river, then returned home to sleep.

The next morning, Hardrock Funk asked his son for a ride to Mrs. Lund’s, where the lady’s absence received no special mention from Myron. They fed the chickens and left quickly.

Investigations focused on tire tracks in the soft river mud, which led Sheriff’s deputies to the Funks’ car. Myron was questioned at the Compton jail while his father sweated it out in Whittier. A search revealed human blood on the spare tire.

Myron’s confession seems to exonerate his father, who claims he was too drunk that night to remember much of anything.

Bring Us the Funk

We take for granted all that easily obtainable marihuana of our teens, and that ever-so-precious peyote gobbled in our twenties, and all this easily obtainable Xanax of our thirties; back in the day, there was just booze. You didn’t have to go cop, and everything you did score had rigorous quality control. Your only worry was making sure you got to Manny’s Grog n’ Groc before the Tick Tock Lounge called last call. That, and being certain you had a little something stashed for the moaning after.

Liquor should carry a Surgeon General’s warning that it will not make you Fitzgerald or Miller or Hemingway. With a little luck, though, it will neither make you Myron Funk.

The city has upped the numbering of Bellflower’s Burton Street from three digit to five, so it’s impossible to say which was Mrs. Lund’s home. They likely all have booze and ironing boards, but perhaps the residents are now inside sparking bongloads and playing Illbleed. Like, copacetic.

So we’ll leave you with an image of fingersniffing, ladykilling Funk, a man to have obviously been played by John Belushi in the biopic. Belushi, the man whacked by Cathy Smith, a woman whose body Mae Lund’s soul vengefully haunted.

Easter Sunday Nightmares of Bunker Hill Crime Bus Tour

Oh, you delightful sickniks! After tabulating the votes for the next Crime Bus date, I see that the majority of respondents have asked for the tour to roll on Easter Sunday, 4/16.

And so it shall. If you would like a seat on the Easter Sunday Crime Bus tour, featuring strange and horrible tales from the history of downtown Los Angeles, please visit this site to purchase through paypal.

You may also email me directly to reserve seats and pay by check or money order, if you prefer.

Each seat is $47, and includes a 5-hour guided tour, snacks, beverages and surprises.

Want to hear what some of the passengers said about the last Crime Bus tour? Check out the latest podcast.

If demand indicates, we will be scheduling another downtown tour in the near future. Please email if you are interested in an alternate date.

best regards,
Kim
1947project

Disclaimer: Although it is extremely unlikely, the organizers reserve the right to postpone the tour in the event of extreme weather, riot, act of war or plague. Refunds may be available no more than 72 hours before Sunday’s tour departs, and at the discretion of the organizers. You may substitute an alternate passenger’s name if you are unable to attend. We regret that there are no refunds for people who miss the bus. Passengers may call Kim at 323-223-2767 or email with any questions.